


repair anything sold, bought, or processed

by misspamela



Category: Bandom, Fall Out Boy
Genre: AU, Alternate Universe - Prostitution, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-11
Updated: 2013-02-11
Packaged: 2017-11-28 23:10:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,728
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/679926
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/misspamela/pseuds/misspamela
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Pete Wentz hookerfic.</p>
            </blockquote>





	repair anything sold, bought, or processed

**Author's Note:**

> There are many people I need to thank: etben, j00j, and especially tzikeh for giving me Chicago details. (T provided me with the choicest info, as linked in the Author's Notes at the end of Part 2) femmequixotic read this sucker when it was still in pieces and whipped me into shape, and faymeadows read it when it was DONE, and made sure it all made sense.
> 
> But my biggest, most heartfelt thanks go out to giddygeek, who had to tolerate being sent this story over IM in bits and pieces almost every night, being subjected to my writerly angst, and going through every line of all thirty pages with a damned fine-toothed comb. You are awesome and I love you!

Prologue

”This is a bad idea,” Andy said, shaking his head. “You’re what, one, maybe two semesters away from graduating?”

“I’ve been ‘one, maybe two’ semesters away from graduating for almost two years.” Pete pulled the form from his back pocket. “Things are starting to happen; I can just feel it, you know?” Whipping out a pen from somewhere in his hoodie, Pete signed the form with a flourish. “We’re touring with _Midtown_ in eight months.”

“You won’t be able to live in the dorms anymore, you won’t be living off your soccer scholarship, and Christ, Pete, your parents--“ Andy ticked off the points on his fingers.

“Would freak.” Pete folded up the form again, backwards this time, the words INTENT TO WITHDRAW now printed firmly cross the top. “So I’m not telling them. I put in my change of address last month. They won’t know anything.” He walked over to Andy and grabbed his shoulders. “Six months, dude. If things don’t start cranking in eight months, I ‘fess up, beg DePaul to take me back, and bust my ass to get my credits in a semester. Deal?” 

“It’s October. In Chicago. Where are you going to live?” Andy asked, but he was nodding his head and shaking Pete’s hand.

“Bob’s got a gig for me at the carwash. It’ll be fine.” Pete grinned. “We’re gonna be huge, man. Just wait and see.”

 

>>>>>>>>>>>>>>

 

Pete left the club early. The bands mostly sucked, and, even though he’d lowered his standards, they weren’t that low yet. He still had a couple of months to get a band together. 

He stepped out onto the street and shivered, his limbs cramping. Christ, it was cold. And he had a nice, cold apartment to look forward to. The gas company had shut off the heat yesterday. If he could magically come up with fifty bucks, he could save himself from freezing to death, but he’d already sold his car, his books, and half his music collection. His shitty little check from the carwash wasn’t coming in until Friday, and that would pretty much cover rent. 

It was February. He just had to get through until June. June meant a steady touring gig and warm weather. June meant going back to his parents’ house, where he could be warm and eat as much as he wanted. And if this Midtown tour went well, Pete’s Little Match Girl winter would make a great footnote in his biography. 

“Hey,” A guy hissed from the mouth of an alleyway. “Hey, come here.” 

Pete had a lot of practice ignoring Chicago’s crazies. He just kept walking. 

“I’ve got a hundred bucks, man. A hundred bucks for five minutes.” The guy waved some green at Pete and yeah, it looked like a bunch of twenties. As Pete got closer, he realized that the guy didn’t look crazy or homeless. He was just a dude in a parka. 

The guy grabbed Pete’s hand --Pete stopped breathing for a second, heart hammering in his chest -- and shoved it in his pants. “Just touch me.” Using his free hand, he slapped the cash against Pete’s chest.

Well, that was one thing Pete hadn’t considered selling. 

“Five minutes,” Pete said. “That’s it.”  
>>>>>>>>>>>>>>

Part One

“Holy shit, you’re a rock star!” Joe yelled, jumping up and knocking one of Patrick’s Transformers off the shelf above his bed. Galvatron wobbled on the edge of the headboard before tumbling to his doom on the wrinkled, plaid surface of Patrick’s comforter.

Shoving Joe in the shoulder, Patrick gently set Galvatron back in place. “It’s a record deal with an indie label, not a Grammy.” They were having their usual Thursday afternoon jam session, (which often happened three or more days out of the week, but Thursday was the Sacred Day of Rocking) and Patrick’s news had completely wrecked Joe’s concentration. Patrick should have waited until after they were done.

“Yeah, but how many high school seniors have a record deal?” Joe perched on the end of Patrick’s desk. “And you don’t even have a band! It was just like...you! And your computer! That’s insane, dude!” He beamed at Patrick. 

Patrick could feel Joe’s pride rolling off of him in waves, and really, it was awesome that he had such a good friend and yeah, fuck it, he was totally proud that he made the record that he had. But talking about it made him kind of sick to his stomach. He swallowed against the sudden bad taste in his mouth. A record deal was sweet and all, but there was just one little problem. “Yeah, it is was just me, and that’s awesome...but they’re expecting a _band_. Which I don’t have.” Picking up a drumstick and waving it at Joe to shut him up before he even started, Patrick said, “Except you, of course.”

“Naturally.” Joe shrugged. “There’s plenty of guys who want to play with you.” He smiled and poked at stack of music magazines with a sock-covered toe. “Too bad they all suck,” he said, knocking the magazines over with a flick of his foot.

“Hey, three months, we’re done with school and on our own in Chicago.” Patrick ran his hands along his guitar, testing the strings, listening for the slightest tweak in the sound. “We’ll find someone there for sure.” 

“Exactly.” Joe crossed his arms, not touching his guitar. “And we need to talk about that.”

This couldn’t be good. Patrick sighed. “ We’re not having the party.” 

“You’re going to be _eighteen_. You have a record deal. And your mom is going to be away.” Joe clenched his fists and slid off the desk, thumping onto his knees, eyes squeezed shut in a perfect picture of teenage-boy need. Patrick ignored him in favor of a new riff he was working on, something sort of poppy, yet hardcore, yet...

“...and you’re _not even listening to me._ ” Joe smacked Patrick’s leg. “Strippers. Kegs. You’re a rock star now, and you should learn to live like one.”

“I don’t drink and I don’t do strippers.” Patrick kicked Joe in the chest. He’d been open about the maybe sort of liking guys sometimes thing with Joe, who didn’t care one way or another. But still, whatever gender: No strippers. “Sounds awesome.” 

“You know I am supportive of your lifestyle choices.” Joe held up one hand, like he was taking an oath. “There would be a smorgasbord of delightful--“

“Shut the fuck up and play already,” Patrick sighed. He wasn’t getting into this right now. 

 

>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>

Given that Joe had spent the week being “sneaky” and running away from Patrick, hunched over his cell phone, Patrick was profoundly unsurprised by the party that showed up at his house on Friday night. Joe was the first one through the door, yelling “Surprise!” hauling a keg in a Radio Flyer wagon. A couple dozen kids tumbled in behind him, all tight denim and faded t-shirts and waving arms. 

Patrick pointed toward the kitchen. “Beer in there. Everything valuable is locked up. If anyone touches my equipment, I’m pressing charges.” The crowd shuffled past him, every third person trying to knock off his hat or give him a high-five. 

A girl wearing a black, artfully shredded t-shirt and boots that made her a good six inches taller than Patrick, swooped in and kissed him on the cheek. She definitely didn’t go to his school. “Happy Birthday!” she squealed. “Where’s Joe?”

“Um,” Patrick said. “Keg. In the kitchen.” When she stood up straight, Patrick was eye level with her rack. Nice. His height did have the occasional benefit. She giggled and waved her fingers at him before pushing through the growing crowd. The small sea of kids jostling each other in Patrick’s front hall parted briefly to reveal Joe, tapping the keg in his moment of glory, framed in the pure, gleaming white of the fridge. 

“That’s a lot of beer for a party full of straightedge kids,” said a voice in his ear.

“Joe doesn’t do anything halfway,” Patrick replied, turning around to see who was talking to him. 

The guy was just a little taller than Patrick. He had short, dark hair, skin just a shade more brown than your typical scene kid, wearing a shirt that said, “Yes, It’s Really Me” and a lot of black eyeliner. Black tattoos swirled and spiked around his arms. Also, he was stupidly hot. 

Patrick tried not to stare. He failed.

“I’m, um, Patrick,” he said. “This is my -- well, not _my_ house, because my mom owns it-- but I live here, and it’s my birthday, so uh, Joe wanted to have this party to celebrate you know,” he waved his hands for emphasis and nearly took out his own damned eye, _smooth_ , Stump, “the turning eighteen thing and the record deal thing and all that.” 

“Record deal? No way.” The guy stuck out his hand and shook Patrick’s. “I’m Pete.” He leaned against the doorframe and crossed his arms, tucking his hands into his armpits. “So, what do you play?”

“Everything, kind of.” Just then, a guy yelled “Oh _shit_!” really loudly, and something crashed and Patrick desperately wished this was someone else’s party. “Fuck,” he swore and took off in the direction of the noise, promising himself that he’d find hot Pete-with-the-tattoos later. 

The noise turned out to be a relatively minor accident with a relatively un-valuable plate, so Patrick was able to move on with a little bitching and shoving the sharp pieces under the faded welcome mat by the back screen door. 

When he went back to look for Pete, he was gone. Well, of course. Patrick couldn’t expect the guy to hang out by his front door all night. He looked around, but there was nothing but a sea of bodies -- somehow, the number of people in his house had doubled since he went to clean up the mess. 

“Heyyyyy...” someone drawled. “Happy Birthday, man!” Bill crashed into Patrick’s side, draping an arm around him. He bent nearly double, wrapping himself around Patrick like a really drunk vine. “Man, Joe invited half the bands in Chicago. Did you see the guys from Arma Angelus?”

“No!” Patrick loved those guys; hed always wanted to see them live, but he’d never had the chance. Their sound rocked, though. And their lyrics were even better. That was some brutal shit. “They’re here?” 

“Yeah, and my man. My _man_!” Bill added, stamping his foot for emphasis, “My man Jon Walker is here, along with some of his buds.” Pressing a kiss to Patrick’s cheek, Bill said, “You should have a birthday every day.” He squinted at Patrick. “Maybe you’d be taller if you were older. Aging. Rapidly aging. Growing. Something.” 

“That’s really depressing, Bill. Awesome.” Patrick shooed him off. _Shit_ , he realized, could Pete-with-the-tattoos be Pete Wentz? _The_ Pete Wentz, who Patrick had heard a million and one stories about, half of them conflicting, most of them physiologically impossible? Pete was in Arma, he’d heard. Well, no chance for him, then.

Bill waved at someone in the kitchen and lurched toward them, yelling over his shoulder, “One of the Arma Angelus dudes is reading comics in your den! Go say hi!”

Okay, maybe Joe was right about the party thing, if it was going to bring Patrick guys from cool bands directly to his _den_. And he wouldn’t say no to spending a little more time with Pete. Patrick squeezed through his living room, rescuing his mom’s vacation photos from a pile of Cheetos, saying hello to another strange girl’s breasts, and shooing off some freshman kid who wanted Patrick to play drums for his “hardcore jazz fusion thing.”

His den was probably going to be the quietest place in the house, as it was the hardest to find. When they renovated the place, the den ended up in an awkward corner, half-hidden by the new kitchen wall. Patrick kind of admired anyone who was that dedicated to getting away from the party.

The guy (not Pete) was curled up on Patrick’s mom’s favorite chair, a wide, blue overstuffed recliner with frayed and thinning patches on the arms from where she read the paper every afternoon when she got home from work. He was heavily tattooed, like Pete, but in bursts of color, instead of black and white. Also in contrast to Pete, this guy looked quiet and serious, squinting behind his glasses at the comic in front of him. 

He looked up at Patrick as he entered the room. “Oh, hey, this is your place, isn’t it? Is this room off limits?” 

Patrick looked around at the worn furniture, Kevin’s ancient TV, and the small pile of his mom’s scrapbooking stuff on the corner table. He grinned. “Yeah, we hide the pirate gold in here.” Waving at the kid to stay seated, Patrick settled on the blue and green checked couch next to him. “I’m Patrick.”

“Andy,” he said, briefly shaking Patrick’s hand. “Listen, I’m not really into the party thing, so is it cool if I hang out here?”

“Yeah, no problem.” Patrick fiddled with the sleeves of his hoodie. “Bill said you’re in Arma Angelus? You guys are pretty kick-ass.”

“Thanks.” Andy carefully slipped his comic into a clear sleeve and put it inside a battered black backpack littered with band pins. “We’re actually on kind of a break right now.” He shrugged. “Band stuff.”

“Yeah,” Patrick said, trying to sound like he knew what he was talking about. “That’s rough.”

“Me and Pete are trying to work on a side project right now, but it’s slow going.” Andy shrugged. “You wouldn’t happen to know a decent guitarist, would you? We need a guy without ego issues, because Pete’s ego _and_ his issues are enough for one band.”

Patrick started to blush, with was stupid, because who even knew if it was the same Pete, and even if it was, it wasn’t like Andy knew that Patrick...what? Had a two-minute conversation with him? Dumb, dumb, dumb. Patrick shook his head, laughing at himself, and yet, still blushing. “Uh, I met a Pete earlier,” he said. “Dark hair? Lots of tattoos, short, um, really, uh...”

“Hot?” Andy asked, smiling. “It’s okay. Even my grandma thinks he’s hot.” Yanking a black elastic off his wrist with his teeth, Andy pulled his hair back into a messy ponytail. “You get used to it,” he said, when his mouth was free. 

Patrick very seriously doubted that, but Andy was cool and he didn’t want to say it out loud. “So,” he said. “What other bands do you like?” Andy lit up and said, “Dude, what do you think about Neurosis?” 

After talking to Andy for an hour or, shit, _three_ about punk bands and old movies and Public Enemy, Patrick wandered out to the party, which had mostly died down. There wasn’t too much damage, nothing worse than Patrick normally left when his mom went away, and nobody had passed out. (Except Bill, as usual, but according to some bystanders, his friend Jon had hustled him into a station wagon and taken off.) Joe was making out with some girl in the corner and hey, he had his hand down the back of her jeans, so Patrick just silently cheered him on and went upstairs to make sure nobody was in his room. 

The upstairs was quiet, with only the occasional burst of laughter filtering in from the party. This boded well. Through the slightly open door, his room was dark, another good sign. He pushed open the door and breathed a sign of relief when he saw that everything was exactly where he left it. 

Except that shadow by the window -- that moved -- 

“Hey, man.” The shadow moved into the moonlight streaming through the curtains. Pete. In his bedroom. Patrick wondered what he thought of Transformers and dirty laundry, because yeah, his room had plenty of both. “Sorry to stalk you. Um, I promise I’m not creepy.”

“Okay,” Patrick said, because he couldn’t think of anything else to say.

Pete moved closer, his teeth flashing white in the dark room. “Actually, I _am_ kind of creepy, just not in a stalker way. Most of the time. Not _this_ time, I swear.”

“Wow, you’re being so comforting right now, you know that?” Patrick forced himself to breathe normally. His heart pounded in his ears and his throat started to close up. Not good. He was going to say something stupid really soon. Disaster was imminent. “Were you like, smelling my shirts?” Yep, and there it was.

To his surprise, Pete laughed. “Maybe a little. They’re mostly fucking gross and all over your floor, though. Good thing I’m a dirty guy.” He walked around the room, touching Patrick’s guitar, his bass, his drum pad, the violin in the corner, the keyboard. “You weren’t joking when you said you played everything, huh?”

“The violin is my brother’s,” Patrick explained. “He left it for me when he got a new one before he went to school. But yeah, everything else is mine.” 

“Nice,” Pete said. “And dude, I hate to break this to you? But my collection kicks your collection’s ass.” He shook his head sadly at Patrick’s shelf of Transformers. “I don’t know what they’re teaching kids these days. Galvatron? Really?”

Patrck just stared. “So, you snuck into my room to criticize my collectibles?” 

“No, man, actually, Joe played me your demo.” Pete flicked a crumpled piece of paper off Patrick’s desk. “It’s good. Really good.”

Fierce pride and an equally fierce desire to strangle the life out of Joe Trohman warred in Patrick’s chest. “I know,” he said. “I know music.”

“So, Joe plays guitar and you sing. Who else is in the band?” Pete asked, settling himself on the corner of Patrick’s desk.

“I just fill in singing until we can get a singer,” Patrick said. “I’d rather play drums.”

“Stupid move.” Pete shook his head. “Your voice is fucking amazing. Who do you have on bass?”

“Well, on the demo, it’s all me.” He tried to ignore Pete’s dropped jaw, but inside, he was just a little bit pleased with himself. Okay, maybe more than a little. “But Joe helps write the riffs, and he’s going to be with me when we record our album and play gigs.”

“You don’t need a bass player, do you?” Pete laughed. “Or a drummer?” He hopped off Patrick’s desk and moved toward him. “Because I know a couple of awesome dudes.”

Nothing in Patrick’s life up until this moment had given him cause to believe in divine intervention. But right now? There might as well be a ray of heavenly light shooting through the window illuminating a flock of doves. Patrick bit his lip, trying not to laugh. “Yeah, I need a band.”

“Then listen,” moving quickly, Pete closed the distance between them. Patrick tensed, remembering the words “creepy” and stalker.” The shaky feeling just got worse when Pete slapped a hand over his mouth. Except that Pete’s hand was heavy and kind of sweaty and that should have been gross, but Patrick still really, really wanted to lick it. 

“I have a feeling about this,” Pete said. “About you.” Subtly, he let up the pressure on Patrick’s mouth. Patrick moved his lips slightly in relief and Pete shivered. “You’re what I’ve been looking for. Corny, right?” Not pausing to let Patrick try to answer, he went on. “But I have to do something first before this becomes like, a business deal or a two buds in a band type thing. Because then it would be weird.”

Sliding his hand down Patrick’s mouth, never breaking eye contact, Pete tipped up Patrick’s chin. Patrick’s heart thudded in his chest, making his breath catch in his throat. No fucking way was this happening. These things did _not_ happen in real life. Hot-bassist-looking-for-a-band Pete was going to _kiss_ him. 

And sure as shit, Pete leaned forward and brushed his lips against Patrick’s. He whispered, “This okay?” The words tumbled against Patrick’s mouth. 

As an answer, Patrick screwed up his courage and -- oh shit, oh shit, what if he was bad at this -- kissed Pete open-mouthed and awkward, at least for the second it took Pete to get on board and open his mouth too. 

But after that, it was amazing. Pete’s lips were warm and rough, nothing like the sticky-soft lipgloss kisses of the (very small) handful of girls Patrick had kissed before. Those had been during games of Spin the Bottle or on a dare. Brief touches in closets or in a roomful of Patrick’s dumbass friends. This was lips -- not just lips, but a whole _mouth_ , open and moving against his -- tongue, and teeth clacking together, hands grabbing, and fucking bone-deep lust slamming into Patrick’s gut, weakening his knees. Okay, so his theoretical attraction to guys was definitely proven in practice. 

Patrick realized that he was kissing Pete frantically, moving out of rhythm, while Pete stood still, his tongue moving so slowly and gently against Patrick’s, one hand stroking the side of Patrick’s face. Patrick forced himself to slow down and match Pete’s movements, deepening the kiss.

Somehow, they stumbled over to Patrick’s bed, tripping over Patrick’s favorite red sneakers and a pile of single-subject notebooks that said HISTORY on the cover, but contained pages of scribbled-out lyrics. Pete laughed into Patrick’s shoulder, a startling, braying laugh that made Patrick giggle. 

Once they got on the bed, in a tumble of elbows and knees and “Ow, fuck, sorry,” Pete hooked his arm around Patrick’s neck and pulled him in, nipping at his lower lip until Patrick opened his mouth. He stroked Patrick’s side, with just enough pressure that it didn’t tickle, until Patrick was flushed and panting into the kiss. 

“Christ,” Patrick muttered into Pete’s mouth. “You’re really good at this. What are you, like, a trained professional or something.”

Pete froze. He dropped his hand from Patrick’s side and pulled back, a crooked grin planted on his face. Patrick tried to recover. “No, no, I just -- you’re _amazing_ ,” he said, reaching for Pete, who still had that horrible grin on his face. 

“Well,” Pete said slowly, grinning wider -- but it wasn’t a _good_ smile, it cracked around the corners of Pete’s face and fled from his eyes -- “I do have sex with dudes for money sometimes.” 

“Very funny,” Patrick said, scooting closer on the bed. “Stop fucking with me, man.” In the pale dawn that had just begun to creep in through Patrick’s window, Pete looked grey, older. Patrick waited desperately for the fucking punchline. 

“I’m...I’m not fucking with you.” Pete bit his lip and looked out the window. “I’m not ashamed of it,” he said angrily, in a rush. “It’s like anything, right? You sell yourself on magazines to make music, you sell fucking shoes, you sell your soul, you sell your rights to your goddamned ideas.” He broke off and looked at Patrick again, a real smile crinkling at the corners of his eyes as Patrick’s face prickled and he went hot and cold and hot again. “I figure,” Pete went on. “Some guy wants to pay good money for my short, sweaty ass, then they got robbed.” He looked away, rubbing his arms. “Well?”

“If you tell me,” Patrick said, shocked at the evenness of his voice, “that Joe hired you to take my fucking virginity, I will _not_ be responsible for my actions.” Patrick realized that his voice was shaking now, his hands were shaking, rage and hurt and crushing _humiliation_ pounded through his body.

Pete’s mouth dropped open. “You’re a _virgin_?”

Patrick had no answer to that other than hauling back and punching Pete in his smug little face. 

“ _Asshole_.” Pete staggered back, stumbling off the bed and rubbing his jaw. “What the _fuck_?”

Patrick launched himself off the bed and shoved Pete in the chest. “I was _fine_ , okay? I was fine. I was going to find a band, and I really, really didn’t need a boyfriend.” He punctuated the last with a good, hard smack to Pete’s sternum. “And then you show up with, with,” he sputtered. “With your bass and your kickass drummer and your body and your _mouth_ and your fucking smooth _words_ and you let me think--“ Patrick stopped there, because no way was he going to spill his party hook-up fantasies for Pete.

And that was the worst part, really. Patrick flushed hot and swallowed against the dull ache in his chest. Other people hooked up at parties all the time. Patrick had to be the stupid, eighteen year-old _virgin_ that took it too fucking seriously. 

But Joe had hired _Pete_ , instead of strippers. To be honest, Patrick would have preferred the strippers. 

“Are you done hitting me now, or can I fucking talk?” Pete was rubbing his chest in little circles, his face set in a tight scowl. “One: Joe didn’t hire me. Two: I didn’t let you think shit; you did that on your own.” Patrick winced. “Three: If I knew you were a virgin, I wouldn’t have started anything with you. Well,” he stopped and scratched the back the back of his head. “I wouldn’t have tried anything tonight, anyway.” Wrapping his fists in the sleeves of his hoodie, Pete chewed absently on the frayed edge of the cuffs. “And thanks for making me feel like a dirty fucking whore, by the way. That was the best part of the night.”

“Pete,” Patrick said tiredly. “Listen.”

“Nah.” Pete pushed past him to the door. “I’m out of here.” He pounded down the stairs and he was gone. 

“Fuck,” Patrick swore, leaning against the doorframe. He tossed off his hat, flinging it into a pile of DVDs, scattering them on his floor. “Fuck.” It was almost full dawn now, and exhaustion blanketed him, damping out the anger and adrenaline. Patrick threw himself on his bed, (Still warm, and how unfair was that?) putting Pete out of his mind and crashing headfirst into sleep. 

>>>>>>>>>>>>>>  
Patrick woke to the sound of distant thunder. “Sssh,” he muttered, flipping over and throwing his arm over his face. The thunder drummed louder, cracking through Patrick’s early-morning sleep haze. 

Early. Morning. Patrick cracked one eye open to see bright sunshine streaming through his windows with an intensity that meant (a) it was damned near noon, and (b) it wasn’t thunder that he was hearing. Christ, whoever was downstairs was going to take his door off the hinges. “Coming,” he croaked to his empty room. Rescuing his hat from the floor, Patrick stumbled downstairs, missing the third step and slamming his heel into the next riser. “Coming,” he yelled louder.

At that, the knocking stopped. Patrick opened the door, blinking into the bright sunshine. Of course. After three solid hours of shitty sleep, Pete was _exactly_ the person he wanted to see right now. “Uh,” Patrick said, brilliantly. He wondered exactly how much he should be apologizing for.

Pete looked like shit. He obviously hadn’t slept, judging from the dark circles under his eyes. His clothes were damp with dew; the bottoms of his jeans muddy and frayed, like he’d been walking for hours in the freezing Illinois dawn. A bruise darkened his cheekbone where Patrick had punched him. “Hi,” Pete croaked, sounding as bad as he looked. 

“Hi,” Patrick answered. He wanted to apologize for _everything_ , bring Pete into this house, give him coffee, wrap his arms around Pete and take it all back. 

Pete slowly reached out his right hand. “I’m Pete Wentz. I play bass.”

Confused, Patrick shook his hand. “Patrick Stump.”

“I’m twenty three,” Pete continued slowly, not looking at Patrick, but not letting go of his hand, either. “I grew up in Wilmette. I went to DePaul University until a few months ago, as a Poli Sci major. I dropped out to pursue my music career, but my parents don’t know. I have a brother and a sister and I like dogs. My friend Andy is one of the best drummers I’ve ever met, and he and I are looking to get a band together.” He looked straight into Patrick’s eyes. “I have a part-time job to make ends meet, but I don’t ever want to do anything in my life except play music in the biggest rock band in the world. And I’m here, wet and cold and really tired, to ask you, Patrick Stump, to be in my band.”

Patrick swallowed hard and tightened his grip on Pete’s hand. “Our band,” he said, softly. 

“What?” Pete’s eyes unshuttered briefly, sparking with hope. 

“It’s going to be _our_ band.” Patrick said. “And Joe--“

“Joe’s in, of course,” Pete said, smiling cautiously. “He fucking shreds.” 

“Yeah,” Patrick said, grinning back. He reached out and touched Pete’s bruised cheek. “I’m sorry.” 

Pete flinched and drew away from his hand. “I think we should keep this professional,” he said, scuffing his toe on the ground. 

“Right,” Patrick said. Professional. He could do that. _Before this becomes, like, a business deal,_ echoed in Patrick’s head. He pushed it away. The band. The band was the important thing. 

“Here’s my cell number and my email,” Pete said, handing Patrick a crumpled piece of paper. “Give me a call or something when you get to Chicago.” 

“I’ll send you some music,” Patrick said, rubbing his eyes. “Tonight.” He yawned wide, cracking his jaw. 

Pete smiled and tugged on the brim of Patrick’s hat. “Get some sleep,” he said. “I’ll talk to you later.” Jamming his hands in the pockets of his hoodie, he turned and walked away.

>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>

Later that night, Patrick got an email from peetrpn@hotmail dot com. It said:

_got your addy from going through your things. i told you i was creepy._

Attached was a file named “words.zip.” Patrick was a little taken aback at the size of the file. He clicked on it and watched the folder blossom on his desktop.

No punctuation, no order, no titles -- nothing but pages of words streaming down the screen like the nonstop flow of music running through Patrick’s head. Grinning from ear to ear, Patrick fired up GarageBand and started matching cadence and beat, meaning and melody, until he fell asleep in his chair. 

>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>

The next morning, before he went to school, Patrick fired off the completed song, along with his cell number. (“If you don’t have it already, stalker.”)

Halfway through Integrated Math, his phone vibrated. Looking to be sure that Mr. Suledan was still droning away at the chalkboard, Patrick checked his messages. 

_u wrote a song._

Patrick rolled his eyes. 

_was i supposed to dance nstead?_

The reply came immediately. 

_u wrote a song in 1 night. fucking genius._

Patrick blushed and hit reply, but Mr. Suledan was calling his name and saying something about cos or sin or something and shit, he had to go up to the board. 

When he got to lunch, there was a message waiting for him:

_when r we going to practice the song?_

Patrick replied:

_joes house, thurs. will snd dirctions_

Patrick had to empty his inbox three times before Thursday. He had learned that Pete was funny, smart, prone to quoting the same awesome, stupid movies that Patrick loved, and that he was almost constantly on his phone, except when he wasn’t, which was always for three hours at a time, between eleven and two. 

Patrick didn’t think about what that meant.

He also didn’t think about the fact that the new message chime on his phone got his heart racing or that he was going to go blind from texting in the dark or the fact that Pete wasn’t doing _anything_ to help the whole “just business” thing.

When Thursday rolled around, Patrick ran to the shower right after school, which made his mom look at him funny and say, “Are you showering for Joe now, hon?”

“Can’t a guy shower without the _third degree_? Jeez,” Patrick huffed, as he slammed the bathroom door. 

“If you have a girlfriend you can just tell me, sweetie!” his mom called through the door. Her voice _shone_ with glee. “Bring her on over!”

_Yeah, mom_ , Patrick thought, as he stripped and turned on the shower. _You’ll love Pete, the dude who has sex with other dudes for money._

Punk t-shirt or pop t-shirt? Polo shirt? Red shoes or green shoes? Patrick settled on a white t-shirt, an argyle vest, jeans, and the red shoes. With yellow laces. He packed his equipment and made it to Joe’s house at the same time as Pete and Andy.

Patrick fumbled getting his guitar case out of the backseat, trying to concentrate on the handles and the shit, the cup holders and the tangled fucking _seatbelt_ , rather than the fact that the guy he’d been crushing on and talking to and writing songs with all week was there, right there, ten feet away. 

“Dude,” Pete said, right behind him. “Are you fucking serious with that sweater?”

“Hey,” Patrick said, turning around and walking straight into Pete’s arms. “Um,” he said.

Pete hugged him and kissed the side of his head. “It’s good to see you,” he said, grinning. “Let’s show these boys our genius songwriting skills, huh?”

Patrick glanced over at Andy and Joe, who were talking animatedly in the driveway. Andy waved at Patrick, smiling, and Patrick was overwhelmed by this sense of _perfection_ , with Pete’s arms still around him and Andy and Joe right there and they were all going to make music together. 

“Let’s do it,” Patrick said, daring to squeeze Pete right back.

It turned out that they kind of sucked. 

Not individually, really -- Andy had some serious skills -- but wow, did they need to practice a little more. 

“Uh, who votes for weekly band practice?” Joe asked, raising his hand. 

“Hey, I’ve been in worse bands.” Pete frowned in concentration, strumming his bass.

“This is true.” Andy came out from behind the drum set and thwapped Pete on the back of his head with a drumstick. “But I’d like to think were aiming a little higher than Pete’s old crappy bands.”

“The song kicks ass,” Pete said fiercely. “We just need to practice it some more.” He looked at Patrick through his lowered eyelashes and Patrick tried not to blush. 

“Patrick, you’re singing, right?” Andy asked, popping the tab on a Mountain Dew and taking a huge gulp. “We should try it with the vocals.”

“Well, uh, I don’t know.” Patrick tugged his hat down to cover his eyes. “Pete, can you sing at all?”

Andy choked on his Mountain Dew.

“I sing, fucker.” Pete punched Andy in the arm. “Well, I scream. And that’s not what we’re writing. Besides, you can sing. I heard the demo.”

“It’s better live,” Joe mumbled around the pick in his mouth. “Show him.”

“Not while you assholes stand around gawking at me.” Patrick shoved Joe in the shoulder. “You have instruments, right?”

They all went back to their spots. Andy counted off the beat, Patrick braced one arm behind his back, guitar forgotten, closed his eyes and began to sing. He tried not to think about the other guys or impressing Pete or the possibility that he might end up _fronting_ this damned band; he just sang. 

Partway through the first chorus, he felt something brush his elbow, then the side of his hat, then Pete was there, pressed up against him, lips against Patrick’s neck for the briefest moment, mouthing the words into his skin. Patrick stumbled into the verse, heart hammering. He dared a grin at Pete, who was grinning, shining back at him and Patrick never wanted the song to end.

But end it did, and there was high-fiving and backslapping and Joe planting a big, wet kiss on Patrick’s cheek. “Told you,” he said, laughing. “So, who’s up for some snacks before we bust this baby out again?”

They headed for the kitchen, weaving their way through the garage. Just before the storm door, Pete wrapped his arm around Patrick’s shoulder. “You’re amazing,” he said, into Patrick’s ear. “I think I’m the luckiest motherfucker alive right now.”

Patrick bit his lip to keep from smiling the stupidest, happiest smile on the planet. “I’m still not a good frontman,” he said. “Can you imagine me on the cover of some magazine?” He shook his head. 

“You’re fucking perfect,” Pete opened the door for Patrick. “But I can be loud enough for both of us, if you want.”

Patrick looked at Pete, with his painted-on pants and the slip of belly and hipbones showing below his tiny black shirt (TIDDLYWINKS CHAMPION, it declared) and he could see Pete on the cover of a hundred magazines. 

Stepping through the door, Patrick laid a hand on Pete’s shoulder. 

“I want,” he said.

>>>>>>>>>>>>>

It was an accident, how it all happened. The Friday after their first practice, Pete had texted him with “ _busy all night_ ”, so Patrick decided to go into the city and check out the vinyl collection at this hole-in-the-wall resale shop called “Sweet Junk,” He’d stayed until the owner kicked him out at ten when they closed. He’d heard that they had a weirdly big music section, which turned out to be awesomely true, and Patrick was so wrapped up in music and distracted by the thought of funk beats behind Joe’s guitar solo on top of _this_ chord progression, _yes_ , that by the time he remembered what he was doing, he was kind of lost.

Patrick looked around, hefting his slippery plastic bag of records under his arm. Shit, his car had to be parked around here somewhere. Patrick squinted through the darkness at the row of unfamiliar apartment buildings. Heading for the nearest street sign, Patrick caught a glimmer of -- yep, there was the lake. Breathing a sigh of relief, Patrick made his way down the quiet side street out toward the shore. Right. He was just north of Wrigleyville, only a few blocks from his car. 

A bunch of laughing twentysomethings emptied out of a bar onto the street, catching Patrick’s eye. But that wasn’t what held his eye. Next to the bar, walking quickly, his head down, was Pete. 

Patrick cleared his throat so he could call out, maybe give Pete a ride back to his place, but something about the set of Pete’s shoulders and the way he was looking around stopped him. Carefully stepping back into the shadow of the building behind him, Patrick waited to see where Pete would go. 

And -- huh. Pete made a quick left and hopped the fence in front of the bird sanctuary. Patrick took a moment to weigh new records vs. fence vs. short dude vs. finding out what the fuck Pete was doing in a damned _bird sanctuary_ this late at night, and decided that fuck it, he could wrap the records in his jacket. 

After making short work of the fence, Patrick crept around the perimeter of the park, trying not to crinkle his record bag too loudly. As his eyes adjusted to the dark, he could make out figures here and there amongst the trees and bushes, but none of them looked like Pete. He was ready to give up when he heard a distinctive laugh, muffled slightly, like someone had their hand over their mouth.

He’d heard that exact laugh yesterday, when Joe’s mom had asked him and Pete to “Keep it down, already,” in the middle of Pete improvising dirty lyrics to the _Reading Rainbow_ theme song. 

Patrick caught sight of Pete just a few yards away, leaning against a tree. The hoodie he’d been wearing was in a heap on the ground. Pete was naked to the waist, his tattoos blending in with the shadows from the moon and the trees, and he was laughing behind his hand at something the guy in front of him had said. 

The much older, kind of skeevy-looking guy. 

_Oh._

Patrick had tried really, really hard to put the image of Pete-the-prostitute out of his head and replace it with Pete-his-new-friend, but he couldn’t anymore, not with Pete smiling up at the skeevy guy like that. Pete took something -- money, Patrick guessed -- from the guy, tucked it into the front of his jeans, and slid down onto his knees. 

Patrick sucked in his breath, hard. This wasn’t, it shouldn’t be hot, it really shouldn’t. It was cold and Pete wasn’t wearing a shirt and Patrick wanted to strangle the fucking asshole in front of him with his bare hands, but he could hear the noises they were making and Patrick could imagine, just imagine, what it might be like to make those noises and _fuck_ , this was all so fucking unfair.

Patrick closed his eyes and willed himself to stop getting hard, goddamnit. He wasn’t going to jerk off to this shit. He swallowed hard and forced himself to look away. Getting out of here started to sound like a really good idea.

Staying out of Pete’s line of sight, (if he had his eyes open; Patrick couldn’t even tell) Patrick made his way back around the edge of the fence, his eyes glued to the ground, not looking at _anything_ that may or may not be happening around him. 

He managed to make it back to the entrance without making too much noise, his blood thundering in his ears, the thirty minutes it was going to take to get back to Glenview feeling like a goddamned _eternity_. 

Patrick had just made it over the fence, tumbling ungracefully to the ground, smacking his elbow on the pavement, when a hand grabbed his shoulder and hauled him up. 

“You’re trespassing, son.” Patrick blinked against the bright white glare of the flashlight in his eyes. Shit, shit, shit, fuck. 

“Um, I was just, um, I have this friend, see, and uh, I bought _records_.” He rustled the bag helpfully, as much as he could with the cop gripping his arm like that. 

“Riiiight,” the cop drawled. “You weren’t in there for a little late-night boy action.” 

_Boy action?_ Patrick tried to will himself dead. It didn’t work.

“No, officer, um, I don’t do that! Really! I’m just, I was buying records, and I have this friend, and I said that part before, right? Um.” Patrick gnawed at his lip and oh God, his mom was going to _kill him_.

The cop took the record bag from his hand, slid out Rick James’ _Ultimate Collection_ and _Ziggy Stardust_ , cocked an eye at Patrick and snorted, “Yeah right, kid.”

Patrick closed his eyes and held out his wrists. Fuck. 

>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>

When they got to the police station, Patrick had to endure a horrifically embarrassing lecture from the cop about how there were nicer places to get dates than ‘that place’ and how he knew how hard it could be to be gay in high school, but Patrick didn’t look like he was far away from college and things would be different then. Really, Patrick could die _any second now_ , and that would be great. Officer Josephs had brought Patrick in as a warning against such risky behavior, he seemed like such a nice kid, blah, blah blah, bail was set at $40, and Patrick could make his phone call now. 

Patrick blinked at the phone in his hand. He could call his mom and say, “Hey, mom, I got picked up for trespassing among the boybait!” No. Not a conversation he wanted to be having. His dad would tell his mom, so, equally out. Joe was at some family thing, and Joe’s mom would tell _his_ mom... Patrick gritted his teeth, picked up the phone, and dialed the last person he wanted to see in the whole world.

“You’re _where_?” Pete laughed, the full-belly laugh that Patrick didn’t hear all that often. Awesome. He was so happy to be amusing.

“Just shut up and come get me, okay? I need you to take my bank card and get $40 from the ATM. I get _one_ phone call, asshole, so make it quick.” 

“Okay, okay.” Patrick could hear the street noises behind Pete, honking cars and some guy yelling, as Pete shuffled the phone around against his ear. “What station are you at again?”

“I’m on North Halstead,” Patrick said, flushing and biting his lip.

The rustling stopped. Patrick could only hear rumbling blur of the traffic and the static of wind. “What did you say you got picked up for?” Pete asked, finally.

The officer who was monitoring the phone call was fat and bored, with a grey handlebar mustache and a fondness for Sudoku. He looked up from his book of puzzles and barked, “Time’s up!” as he attacked the page with his eraser. 

“Come get me, please?” Patrick begged. “We’ll talk then.” He hung up. Suddenly, he wished he _had_ called his mom. He was exhausted and _starving_ and suddenly terrified of seeing Pete again, staring at his mouth and the grass stains on his jeans.

He turned to the desk to be escorted back to his cell, but the officer looked him up and down, pulled up a chair next to the desk, and patted it with his stubby, rough hand. “You any good at puzzles, kid?” he asked. “I swear I tried every number five times on this one.”

“I can try,” Patrick said, scooting closer. “I suck at math, though.”

“It’s not math,” the cop said, reaching for a half-empty box of donuts and setting it in front of Patrick. “It’s patterns. Logic. You drink coffee?”

Patrick didn’t, but it seemed right to take it anyway.

It took Pete way longer than it should have to get there, and thirty minutes into the wait, after helping Officer Seizowski finish two puzzles, Patrick started to panic that Pete wouldn’t show up at all. 

But show up he did, almost an hour after Patrick called him, in different clothes, hoodie pulled low over his face. He barely glanced at Patrick. “Do I have to sign something?” he asked, sliding two crumpled twenties across the counter.

“Let me just get you a receipt.” Officer S. lumbered to his feet. He carefully printed out the receipt, had Pete sign it, then shuffled around for another form. Patrick got up slowly and walked around the counter to stand next to Pete. Pete glanced at him, his mouth set and drawn. 

“Thanks,” Patrick started to say, but was interrupted by a sheaf of papers being dumped in front of him. “Sign those and you can take your belongings and head out.” Officer S. pulled Patrick’s bag of records out from under the desk and plopped it one the table. “And I don’t want to see you back in here, you got that?” 

“Yes, sir. Um, thank you.” Patrick signed as fast as he could, grabbed his records, and turned to Pete. “My car is a few blocks away, by Sweet Junk.”

“You were buying records?” Pete’s face lifted, looking cautiously hopeful as they walked outside. “What happened? Did you like, stumble into some old lady’s garden, all distracted by a beautiful bass line in your head?”

For a second, Patrick grabbed onto this idea. It was perfect. Pete never had to know that he saw him; he could make up a story about some crazy old lady and...he’d be lying to Pete. 

Patrick knew lying to Pete would end badly. It’d fuck up the band; it’d fuck up their friendship.

He shoved his records under his arm and pushed his hands into his pockets. “No,” he said quietly. “I mean, yeah, I was thinking about music.” Pete smiled at this, fast and light -- Patrick barely caught it out of the corner of his eye. “I got distracted and I ended up by the bird sanctuary.”

Flinching, Pete wrapped himself tighter in his hoodie. Patrick saw that his knuckles were white, his hands balled into fists. “And?” he said harshly.

“I saw you,” Patrick went on, his tone carefully neutral. “I saw you and I...I followed you.”

“You followed me,” Pete said flatly. “Of course you did. Fuck.”

They walked in silence down the street until they came to Patrick’s car. Pete didn’t look at Patrick; he just scuffed the ground with his sneaker, his shoulders rounded and hunched. “I can give you a ride...?” Patrick asked. 

“Did you whack off?” Pete bit out. In a blur of motion, he pivoted forward and punched the side of Patrick’s car. “ _Fuck_ ,” he swore, shaking his hand. “Did you fucking get off on seeing me on my knees?”

“No, Jesus!” Patrick braced his hands against the hood of his car and blew out a breath. “Of course not.” He glanced over at Pete. “I left right away. As soon as I went over the fence, the cop grabbed me.”

“Serves you right,” Pete muttered. 

“Yeah, it does.” Straightening up, Patrick took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes. “Let me give you a ride,” he said. “It’s the least I can do.” 

Pete nodded, but Patrick couldn’t read his expression. 

On the way to Pete’s apartment, Patrick called his mom to say he was with Pete and not to worry. She had actually gotten pretty cool with him since he became a senior, but he figured it was just polite to call.

Pete didn’t say a word to Patrick for the whole ride across town. They got to Pete’s apartment and Patrick walked him to the door, looking for one last chance to make things right with them. He hated feeling so stupid and wrong and _distant_ from Pete. He hated that he couldn’t get the sight of shirtless, cocksucking Pete out of his head. It was so _unfair_. Unfair that Pete thought he had to do this, unfair that Patrick couldn’t keep it professional, and unfair that it wasn’t...well, that it wasn’t Patrick who got to make those noises. 

“Wait,” he said, as Pete turned his key in the door. “I need to come in.” Okay, that was rude. Try again, Stump. “I have something I need to tell you.”

Shrugging, Pete stepped past him as he opened the door. “So say it.”

Patrick waited until Pete had closed the door and was facing him, looking straight in his eyes. “I’d be better,” he blurted out. 

“Don’t,” Pete said, shaking his head. He started pacing the room. “Just--don’t.”

“How can you do that and say it’s just a job? How can you do that with _them_ and not with me?” Patrick knew he was yelling, but he didn’t give a shit. He grabbed Pete’s arm. “I’d be _better_ ,” he said. “And I want -- I want it to be you.”

Pete laughed. “You saw your friend give a forty year-old dude a blowjob in a fucking park for fifty bucks and now you want him to take your virginity.” But he didn’t pull his arm away. “That’s fucked up, you know that?”

“Like you said; you’re my friend.” Patrick tugged him closer. “And you know what you’re doing.” He rested his forehead against Pete’s. “I don’t want it to be anyone else,” he whispered. “Please.” 

And how he got from lurking in a park to a police station to _here_ , Patrick didn’t know. But he knew as soon as he opened his mouth that this was what he wanted. 

Pete pressed his mouth to Patrick’s ear. “You know what?” he said, low and harsh. 

“What?” Patrick barely said the word out loud. He felt Pete’s hand move up his hip and settle on his waist and he knew he’d won. 

“I don’t want it to be anyone else either.” And Pete kissed Patrick, for only the second time, but Patrick felt like it had been fucking _years_ instead of days, like he’d been holding his breath the whole time and didn’t even know it. 

Patrick kissed back, thinking, _yes, yes, fucking finally_ , aware of Pete’s hand on his waist, his thumb idly stroking the waistband of Patrick’s jeans, aware of his own hands, gripping onto Pete’s shoulders like he was going to take off if Patrick let go. Relaxing a little, Patrick tried rubbing his hands up and down Pete’s arms, wondering exactly where else he should be touching. If Pete was a girl, he’d be heading for her boobs right about now. But Pete didn’t exactly have...Pete’s hands slipped around Patrick’s waist and cupped his ass. _Oh_.

“Bed,” Pete said, between kisses. “Bed, now.” He walked with his hands glued to Patrick’s ass, refusing to let go for balance. “No way, man, this shit is too good to let go of,” he laughed, when Patrick tripped over one of Pete’s shoes. 

Pete flipped off the lights on his way down, which Patrick was thankful for. Mood lighting was good, he thought, for when you didn’t exactly know what you were doing. Patrick kicked off his shoes, reaching for the Pete-shadow on the edge of the bed. When he got a handful of bare skin instead of old t-shirt, Patrick made a noise low in his throat and pulled his own shirt off, wanting more skin, more, more, more, now. He kissed Pete, hands scrabbling over his shoulders, trying to trace tattoos he couldn’t see, pushing his hips up, rubbing his cock against Pete’s in an unsteady rhythm, scraping the zippers of their jeans together. 

“Whoa, whoa.” Pete grabbed Patrick’s hips. “Slow down.” Patrick started to panic, until Pete said, “It’ll be over in five seconds if you keep that shit up.” Pete kissed Patrick gently, playing with the button on his jeans. “What do you want? It’s your call, okay? You say when.” 

“All of it,” Patrick said, reaching down and yanking his jeans open. He wasn’t going to pussy out now. “Everything, whatever.”

“Right,” Pete said, sounding breathless. He pushed himself away from Patrick and shimmied out of his jeans. Patrick took that as his cue to do the same. 

Pete knelt over Patrick and ran his hands up Patrick’s thighs. “Don’t take this wrong,” he said, “but you’re not going to last anyway.” And Patrick would have been insulted if Pete hadn’t finished that thought by sliding down the bed and sucking Patrick’s cock into his mouth. Patrick grabbed the sheets and keened, because shit, he was fucking _unprepared_ for this, this was better than anything in the whole wide world, the feeling of wet heat around him and oh, sparks of pleasure shooting straight up his spine, making his toes curl, Pete’s hand gripping his leg and oh, oh, this was it. “Pete,” he choked out, but that was all he could say before he was coming hard into Pete’s mouth, making noises he never thought he’d ever make, ripping the bottom sheet off Pete’s bed in the process.

Pete crawled up the bed as Patrick was still gasping for air. He had something in his hand. “You said all of it,” Pete said, his voice unsteady. 

“Yeah,” Patrick said, even though he couldn’t imagine having _more_ sex than what had just happened. “Go for it.” God, it was probably good that he wasn’t trying to sleep with _girls_ with that smooth talk. 

“You could...you could fuck me.” Pete pushed a small bottle into Patrick’s hand. “It’s okay.” 

Patrick imagined Pete saying that to some skank-ass guy in a park. “No.” He gave the bottle back to Pete. “I’m the one who offered, remember?”

“Okay,” Pete said, sucking in a sharp, whistling breath and shuddering. “Okay, wow.” Stretching out alongside Patrick, he kissed him long and hard, sucking on his lower lip. Patrick reached out and dragged his fingertips down Pete’s ribs, trailing along his hipbone, dipping into the hollow of his belly. He palmed Pete’s cock, feeling it jerk in his hand. Pete groaned, low and long. “Over, over,” he muttered shoving at Patrick’s shoulder. 

Patrick rolled over onto his stomach, realizing with a shock that he was already hard again. He felt Pete behind him, pressing kisses to his shoulders and spine, up and down his body, licking and biting seemingly random spots until Patrick was clutching the pillow so hard that his hands ached and grinding into the mattress. Finally, he felt something cold and wet press into him. Patrick tensed, shocked at how weird it felt, but he eventually relaxed into it, concentrating on the feel of Pete’s other hand heavy on his leg, and the sound of Pete’s voice, murmuring, “Beautiful, beautiful.”  
After a minute, the sensation went from “weird” to “really fucking hot” and the curve of Pete’s knuckle was hitting a spot that made Patrick sweat and all of a sudden he was so fucking hard and humping the mattress between thrusts and then Pete stretched him more, and it was so, so good. “Now,” Patrick said. “Fuck, _now_.”

“We could stop,” Pete said, his voice thin and shaking, right against Patrick’s ear. His body already draped over Patrick’s back, which he hadn’t even noticed happening. “You don’t have to do this.” Patrick could feel Pete’s cock nudging against his leg, heavy and hard, and his mouth went dry. For lack of words, Patrick pushed back, fucking himself on Pete’s fingers, moaning.

“Fuck,” Pete whispered, fumbling for something on the nightstand. He pulled back, Patrick heard a rustle and a tear, and then Pete’s fingers were gone, too fast, the empty sensation making Patrick’s stomach flip. 

But he came back, tilting Patrick’s hips up, pulling him back so he was on his knees, blunt pressure pushing into him, stretching him, making Patrick’s eyes water and his arms shake. He tried to breathe shallowly, swallowing a whimper against the burn. 

Pete stopped moving. He was shaking all over. “Give it a sec,” he said, gripping Patrick’s hips tightly. 

The sharpness of the sensation faded, and Patrick tried rocking on his knees. “Shit,” Pete hissed, and he was right back, wrapping himself over Patrick, pressing his face into Patrick’s shoulder, pushing in, through the burn, past the pain, until Patrick didn’t know where he ended and Pete began. Pleasure and pain and _holy, holy shit_ swirled together in his mind and body until Pete started to _move_ and then it was more and more pleasure and less pain and more of that sparking, and he was hard again, so fucking hard, all of a sudden. 

Patrick tried to get his hands on his cock, but he ended up just smacking his face into the edge of the headboard and throwing off Pete’s rhythm. Pete just laughed into Patrick’s neck and wrapped his own hand around Patrick’s cock and that was it, Patrick thrust into Pete’s hand twice and came, Pete’s laughter still echoing in his ear. Through his orgasm, Patrick felt Pete speed up, fucking him harder, his hips stuttering and jerking, muttering, “Have to, sorry, have to,” and then Pete was collapsing against him, panting, coming and coming and coming. 

Afterward, Patrick was pretty sure that Pete pulled out and cleaned them up, but he doesn’t remember any of that. He just remembers curling around Pete’s pillow and falling deeply, immediately asleep.

>>>>>>>>>>>>>

The sound and smell of coffee being made woke Patrick up. He had a moment of disorientation -- bare walls, window in the wrong place, was he _naked_?-- but then he remembered the night before and he threw the blanket over his head in glee and embarrassment, blushing and grinning.

After he managed to control himself, dammit, Patrick eased himself out of bed in search of his clothes. He tossed on what he could find -- it wasn’t like his mom would be _checking_ to see if he was wearing underwear, right?-- and headed out to the kitchen to find Pete.

Pete was at the counter, fully dressed, his back to Patrick, tapping his fingers at the coffee maker. His hoodie was up, covering his face, but Patrick knew Pete’s body language already, and this was not looking so good. “Hey,” he said. “Uh, good morning.”

“Is it?” Pete asked, turning to Patrick. His eyes were hooded and wary, and the circles under his eyes seemed darker than they were the day before. Patrick wondered if he’d even slept. 

“You tell me.” Patrick’s body tensed. “I was doing okay until I came out to find you moping at Mister Coffee.”

“I’m going out again tonight,” Pete said sharply, turning around again. “I have to. This is not -- it’s not a relationship. It can’t be.” He jabbed a button on the coffee maker. “At least not for a few months. Not yet.”

Patrick felt sick. Not _yet_? Fuck that, he thought they were at least _friends_. He deserved better than that. “We don’t have to be in a _relationship_ , but you also don’t have to be an asshole.” He grabbed Pete’s shoulder and turned him around. “Fuck, you can come live with me or something. We can figure this out together.”

“Right, I can live with you, because that’s not going to cause any problems and my parents aren’t going to flip and your parents aren’t going to flip and we’d _both_ be homeless and the _tour_ and the _album_.” Pete smacked his hand into the wall. “You just had to wait a few _months_ , okay? And you fucking pushed, and tonight--” Pete snapped his mouth shut.

“Tonight what?” Patrick asked, stepping into his space.

“I have a whole deal going down; my first repeat customer, and he wants something special.” Pete leaned his elbows on the counter, jiggling his foot. “This is going to be enough money to get me a deposit on our van. We’re almost _there_ , Patrick. We’re going to record and tour and I threw away everything for this chance,” Pete said, the muscles in his jaw clenched and tight. “I’m not giving it all up. Not even for a hot piece of teenage ass.”

“Not even for _what_?” Patrick asked, his heart racing. Pete looked at him, his eyes dark with something Patrick couldn’t name, and then he looked away. “Not even for a hot piece of teenage ass,” Pete said coldly, and Patrick didn’t think, he just reacted, anger twisting through him. He grabbed Pete and shoved him against the fridge. “Well, this piece of _ass_ is also writing your songs, fuckhead, so think about that.”

“I _am_.” Pete didn’t fight back; he just stood firm with one hand braced on the counter. “We can’t do this--“ he waved his hand toward the bedroom--“and have the band and have my fucking job on top of it all. I can’t do it, not now.” He closed his eyes. “Just a few months. Then we’ll talk.”

Patrick couldn’t handle this fucking conversation again, he really couldn’t. “And who says you get to choose?” he asked. “You’re fucking with me and you need to cut the shit. I was _there_ last night, asshole. I know you wanted...” he bit his lip and stopped, because maybe he didn’t really know what Pete wanted. 

“Yeah,” Pete said. “I did. And do you think I want to fuck around on you every night so we can pay rental on the studio? Do you want to throw away the chance we have _right now_ , so I can put in enough overtime at the car wash to feed myself? Do you want to just give me money so you can _buy_ me like everyone else does?”

Patrick didn’t say anything. The kitchen seemed oddly bright and harsh, the yellow tiles of the backsplash shining in sharp relief in the sun. A bird twittered outside.

“That’s what I thought,” Pete said, his head dropping to his chest. 

“I think you’re being fucking dumb.” Patrick closed his eyes against the sunlight, which was making his eyes water. “And stubborn. And an asshole. And I’m exhausted and still sore from when you _fucked_ me, which you didn’t seem to have much of a problem with last night.” He opened his eyes to see Pete bracing himself against the counter with both hands now, breathing shallowly through his nose. His arms were shaking.

“So I’m gonna go.” Fishing in his pocket for his keys, Patrick walked to the door. “If you figure your shit out, call me.” Patrick gave him another moment, another chance to take it all back and not be such an _ass_ , but Pete just bobbed his head in the barest of nods. Stomach twisting, Patrick opened the door and said, “Fine. See you in the studio,” and just walked away.

And it hurt; it hurt so fucking much that something that Patrick had looked forward to his _whole life_ was fucking _sullied_. Pete took this away from him, which Patrick swore nobody could ever do, and now he was twisted up and angry and he just wanted to go home and back to school, which was fucked up and wrong and _shit_ , maybe Pete was right about not getting involved. 

Patrick realized that his keys were biting into his hand from him clenching his fist. He grimaced and let up on them. He needed to go home, that was for sure. Food, sleep, and a shower, and then maybe he could think clearly. As he got in the car, he tried to ignore the fact that he really _was_ still sore, because that -- last night -- wasn’t something he could think about right now.

So he started up his car and went home.

>>>>>>>

After mumbling a hello and an excuse to his mom, Patrick crashed out for most of the morning and early afternoon. When he woke up, he had a crick in his neck and a sticky, dry mouth. Dull gold shone through his windows from the setting sun. Remembering the morning, last night, all of it, Patrick closed his eyes, feeling the heavy thump of his heart against his ribs. 

Maybe Pete was right. Maybe he’d fucked it all up, for what? Getting laid? 

Rolling over onto his back, Patrick thought back to last night; Pete’s mouth, the way his hand stroked Patrick’s shoulder when he was buried deep inside him, his murmured, rambled whispers between fumbling kisses. “No,” Patrick said out loud. He hadn’t fucked up the band.

Pete was just being a _dumbass_.

Patrick was going to go back to Chicago, he was going to find Pete, and he was going to kick his ass repeatedly until he understood what a fucking _great_ boyfriend Patrick would be. No, scratch that -- until Pete understood what a great boyfriend _he_ could be. 

Determined, Patrick hauled himself out of bed, groaning at the twinges in his sore muscles, and went downstairs. There was a note on the kitchen table:

__

Out until 10:00. Dinner in the fridge. Be good.

Love,   
Mom

Patrick zapped the leftover lasagna, wolfed it down, showered, changed, and was out of the house by the time it was fully dark.

All the way to Chicago, Patrick tried to rehearse what he was going to say to Pete, but all his ideas ended with shaking that stupid, awesome grin off Pete’s face or getting on his knees and begging. Neither of which were the best start to a relationship. 

Pulling onto North Halstead, Patrick spotted--miracle of miracles-- an empty parking space within sight of most of the bars. He parked there, took our his iPod, and waited.

And waited.

Patrick waited the better part of two hours (and worked his way through _Ride the Lightning_ , the _Batman_ soundtrack, and _Ultimate Run-DMC_ ) before he realized that hey, he never thought to check to see it Pete was home. Duh.

Smacking himself in the forehead, Patrick started his car and drove across town, silently cursing his own stupidity. 

He made it to Pete’s apartment in record time, but when he got there, the windows were dark and Pete didn’t answer the door. Patrick chewed his thumbnail for a moment, considering. There was really only one place left to go.

>>>>>>>>>>>>

The side street that Patrick had parked on last time had plenty of parking spaces, so he pulled in there and made his way up to the bird sanctuary. There were a ton of people still wandering the streets at this time of night; leaving restaurants, window-shopping, looking at the lake. Patrick decided to wait it out for a bit at Caribou Coffee, slowly sipping a latte, trying desperately not to think about what Pete might be doing right then. 

By the time he was done, the streets had cleared and he could hop the fence into the sanctuary in private. (He checked and double-checked for police cars. Patrick figured he wouldn’t get off that easy _twice_.)

Guessing that Pete might be in the same spot, Patrick made his way back through the trees, cursing the fact that he’d dropped out of Boy Scouts in second grade, because who the fuck thought he’d need to navigate by compass in _Chicago_?

Pete wasn’t near the tree he was at before, and Patrick had just decided to sweep out closer to the lake, when he saw something on the ground, further back into the bushes. He squinted. Was that Pete’s hoodie? Had he left his clothes here?

Patrick crept toward it, holding his breath. He could feel his heart pounding and his breath rasping over his tight, chapped lips. He could hear everything: the distant roar of traffic, the rustling of the trees in the wind, a cargo ship’s booming horn; but he ignored it all in favor of the small pile of _something_ ten feet in front of him.

The pile moved. 

Patrick caught a glimpse of forearm sticking out from the shadows, Jack Skellington dancing in a patch of moonlight. “Pete?” Patrick rushed forward. 

“Pete?” he whispered again, as loud as he dared. 

Pete was lying on his side, one arm crooked to cover his face, both knees curled to his chest. Patrick was shocked at how small he seemed at the moment -- Pete wasn’t tall, but he was taller than Patrick-- and Patrick was scared for a second that Pete had been _shot_ or something, shit, shit. Scrabbling his hands over Pete’s body, Patrick checked for blood or holes or like, open, bleeding, _wounds_. 

“Ow,” Pete muttered. “Fuck off.” He flailed weakly at Patrick. 

Patrick started breathing again. “What the fuck happened?” 

“Guy wanted more than he paid for,” Pete said quietly. “More than I...fuck, Patrick, just get me home.” 

“You need a hospital.” Patrick cradled Pete’s head and helped him sit up slowly. Pete hissed in pain. “Seriously, dude.”

“No doctors; I’m fine. I might have a cracked rib.” Pete touched his face. “And I know I’m not as pretty as I was this morning, but I’m okay. I just want to go home.” 

“I was there; you weren’t _that_ pretty,” Patrick said absently, maneuvering Pete onto his feet.

Pete laughed pitifully, clutching his ribs. “Truer words, man. Truer words. Now get me home so I can get some sleep. And a fucking ice pack.”

>>>>>>>>>>>>  
Patrick watched as Pete slept. He looked ten years younger when he was sleeping, like a little boy with messy hair, all crashed out from a sugar high or something.  
Well, he looked liked that from the angle Patrick was sitting, anyway. If he moved, he could see the shadows of bruises along Pete’s jaw and the swelling of his split lip.

Pete stirred, wincing and pulling one arm protectively around his ribs. “Where...?” He looked around, then flopped back on the bed, not meeting Patrick’s eyes, grimacing. “I feel like I got hit by a truck.”

“Nah,” Patrick said, forcing his voice into a semblance of normalcy. “You just got beat up by a _john_ , what the _fuck_ were you thinking?” Well, so much for normal. 

Grabbing the glass of water he’d poured an hour ago, Patrick handed it to Pete and sat on the bed, elbowing Pete’s legs out of his way. Pete sat up and sipped the water slowly. “You’re done,” Patrick declared. “We’ll get the money for the van _somehow_. Christ, Joe and I are getting graduation money, right?” Pete half-smiled at that. “And I would be a shitty boyfriend -- which I _am_ , by the way-- if I let you do this anymore. You can move in with me and my mom, and I’ll come with you to tell your parents that you dropped out of school -- I’m sweet, parents like me -- if it comes to that.” Shit, that was probably moving too fast. Patrick knew he should have rehearsed more.

Pete coughed on his water and spluttered, setting the glass down on a brand new AP magazine that was in danger of sliding off Patrick’s bedside table. "Oh yeah? And when I bring my *boyfriend* with me to tell my parents I dropped out of college and whored myself out so I could join a band and go on tour, and they fucking explode and kick me out and disown me, you'll hold my hand, right?”

Patrick looked down. “Yeah,” he said quietly.   
“Why?” Pete asked. 

“Because,” was all Patrick could say.

Pete reached for him and froze, grimacing. “Getting beat up fucking sucks,” he said. Still cradling his arm around his stomach, he reached behind him and propped the pillow up against the headboard. He eased himself against the pillow and kicked Patrick in the ass until he moved enough so Pete could pull the blankets up. 

Pete fucked around with the blankets for a few minutes, tucking them and smoothing them, until Patrick was ready to give him a damned black eye to go with his fat lip. “For a while,” Pete said suddenly, not meeting Patrick’s eyes, “It was easy money, you know? I could do music almost full-time and not starve. But this?” Pete grimaced. “Fuck that noise.”

“And I’ve been telling you this --” Patrick started.

“Because you wanted to _fuck me_ ,” Pete answered, kicking Patrick again. “That’s not fucking fair, you know. I do shit because I want to. Not because you’re going to bully me, or _stalk_ me into feeling fucking guilty about my choices. No,” he said, holding up his hand. “I know. I suck at fair.”

“Damned straight,” Patrick was starting to get good and pissed now. His jaw started to clench and twitch, and his head began to throb. “You can’t say I don’t give a shit about you. You’re all I’ve fucking thought about since I met you, you asshole.”

“Well, that’s romantic.” Pete looked down, then up at Patrick through his lashes. “So I’m your boyfriend, huh?” Pete quirked a smile at Patrick. Patrick was tempted to walk the fuck out the door, because Pete cannot fuck with him any more tonight, seriously, and he was getting whiplash from this conversation.

“Yeah,” Patrick gritted out. “If you’re smart enough to take me up on it. I mean, I keep offering and if you did. If you did.” He licked his lips, smiling tentatively, and turned his hand palm-up on the blanket next to Pete, hoping. “We could have it all.”

The silence stretched between them, heavy and tangible. Patrick felt his smile freeze on his face. “Right,” he said, his voice rasping through the room, severing the moment, but Pete was there, he was grabbing Patrick’s hand, gripping too tightly, and his smile actually reached his eyes. He pulled Patrick into a kiss shaped like his smile, playful and full of promise. 

“I’m not really used to that,” Pete said, flexing his fingers, his dark eyes locked on Patrick’s. “I’m the King of Compromises.”

“Bullshit,” Patrick said. “You have loving parents, who you are lying to. You have a decent almost-boyfriend whose head you are fucking with, an you have a band that’s going to take over the world.” Patrick waited.

Pete touched Patrick’s palm gently with his fingers. “But Charlie,” he said, looking hard at Patrick. “Don't forget what happened to the man who suddenly got everything he always wanted.”

“He lived happily ever after,” Patrick finished. 

“Weird,” Pete said, but he was smiling, a real smile, and pulling Patrick into a kiss. “Give me the phone,” he said. “I’m gonna fix this.”

>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>

Pete shifted the phone to one ear and reached out with his free hand, crooking his pinky around Patrick’s. “Hey, mom?” he said. “We need to talk.”

**Author's Note:**

> 1\. I was chatting with about where gay prostitutes might hang out, and she pointed me to this [article about the bird sanctuary](http://www.insideonline.com/site/epage/26127_162.htm). Once again, fiction-0, reality-1. 
> 
>  
> 
> 2\. The quote the title is based on, for those of you ~~who are too young~~ who don't know it, is from the movie _Say Anything_. It goes like this: "I don't want to sell anything, buy anything, or process anything as a career. I don't want to sell anything bought or processed, or buy anything sold or processed, or process anything sold, bought, or processed, or repair anything sold, bought, or processed. You know, as a career, I don't want to do that."


End file.
